Summer Guide 2013: I Believe I Can Fly

An anti-outdoorsman goes fishing for salvation.

It’s a drizzly Memorial Day morning, and
I’m standing in calf-deep water in a Yamhill River tributary, searching
for redemption. More literally, I am learning tenkara, the Japanese
method of fly-fishing. This is odd, as I never learned the more familiar
Western style, and also because, at a young age, I swore off the idea
of fishing altogether.

It is one of my most
distinct childhood memories: I was around 8 years old, on my family’s
annual summer vacation at a California park. (It could’ve been Sequoia
or Yosemite or Lake Arrowhead—honestly, they all sort of meld into one
big blur of playing Bubble Bobble in a cabin with my cousins.) My
dad took my siblings and me fishing at a nearby creek. As I stood
there, my line limply steeped in the shallow water, attracting nary a
nibble, I watched as my then-4-year-old sister morphed into the guy on
the Gorton’s box, emptying the river of seemingly every last trout. (In
reality, she probably only caught two, but as I remember it, she was
pulling in enough to stock a Long John Silver’s.) My ensuing jealousy
soured me on not just fishing, but outdoor activity in general. Years
later, in high school, I wrote an essay decrying fishing as a sport for
morons working really hard to outsmart the only creature dumber than
they were.

As I’ve grown older, I
have come to regret those comments. Now, at age 30, I am wading into
the muck of Willamina Creek, rod in hand, as a gesture of atonement. In a
way, this experience is about me letting go of the past, and moving
toward a damper, muddier future.

Jeff Gottfried wants
to help me get there. He is, along with being the father of a friend of
mine, the founder of Educational Recreational Adventures, a Portland
nonprofit designed to foster in children positive experiences with
nature, to keep them from maturing into cynical urbanites like me. Short
and bespectacled, with a salt-and-pepper beard and professorial
demeanor, Gottfried is a walking natural-history encyclopedia and one of
the only authorized teachers of tenkara in the state. It differs from
the Western style of fly-fishing in its use of a light, retractable rod,
which has no reel and a fixed line. As Gottfried explains it, he’s got a
pretty good record with first-timers. That just convinces me that I am
destined to spoil his batting average.

When we arrive at
around 10 am, the creek is roaring, and the overnight downpour has
turned the usually clear water a murky brown. As we trudge down from the
road in our waterproof boots and beige coveralls, accompanied by
Athena, his steely-eyed Australian shepherd, Gottfried indicates that,
given the conditions, perhaps I should be satisfied with merely learning
how to cast. “It’s called fishing, not catching,” he reminds me. He
instructs me to place the line in the water with two sharp flicks of the
wrist, aiming for “zones of tranquility,” then yank the line in
imitation of the delicate movements of an insect. As I’m listening to
him, my line gets stuck in a tree. Delicacy ain’t exactly my thing.

After a few minutes
of practice, though, I get into a rhythm. I catch a few snags, get a bit
tangled (“A bit tangled? That’s a fucking mess!” Gottfried laughs) and
nearly lose the rod in the water at one point. But an hour in, Gottfried
is complimenting my form and instincts. As it turns out, the
constraints of tenkara agree with me. (When I try a regular rod and
reel, I give the line too much slack, and the lure ends up hooked in my
bootlace.) After a while, the repetition puts me in my own zone of
tranquility. It’s not exactly Zen. It’s more like the prurient rush of
repeatedly pulling the arm on a slot machine. Each cast is a new
opportunity to cash in, and it’s less about the result than the thrill
of the attempt. It’s a good thing, too: After about three hours, all
I’ve caught is a lot of branches.

Then, it happens.
There’s a tug on the line, and this time, it’s actually something
living. I see a scaly blur flopping out of the shallows, and I freak out
a little bit. I honestly wasn’t prepared for this. I ask Gottfried what
to do. I shuffle up the shore, tugging on the rod, until the creature
wriggles close enough for Gottfried to snare it in a net: an 11-inch
cutthroat trout. Part of me thinks it’s a bit silly. It’s illegal for me
to eat this thing, and after three minutes of staring at it, we release
it back to its miserable fish life. Is this all the payoff for four
hours of effort?

But another, deeper
part of me feels an immense sense of satisfaction. After all, that fish
took longer than just four hours to catch. For me, it took 20-plus
years. In that time, I’ve evolved from a Southern California shut-in
into a transplanted Oregonian willing—and able—to get all up in nature’s
face. It’s proof that, as I stumble into my 30s, I don’t have to be the
same person I was in my teens and 20s. I can change. I can grow. I can
trick a fish into thinking I’m an insect. Then again, maybe I just feel
like I finally one-upped my sister. Either way.

As the saying goes: “Teach a man to fish, and you feed him
for a lifetime. Give him a tin shack stocked with fish that’s already
been caught and waiting to be eaten and, well, fuck it, let someone else
do the work.” Founded in Idaho in 1979, the Gildersleeve family’s
eco-conscious seafood market maintains a rotating selection of fresh
Chinook salmon, Oregon Bay shrimp and Netarts oysters.

Fish outsmarting you? Looking to square off against a less
wily creature? Located two hours west of Portland, Nehalem Bay is among
the best spots for crabbing on the Oregon Coast. Just purchase a
license (an annual permit is $7), drop a trap into the water, and those
idiots crawl right in!

Reel M Inn

2430 SE Division St., 231-3880.

Let’s be honest: If this nautical-themed bar’s fried
chicken could swim, many of us would have gotten acquainted with a rod
and reel long ago.

I know what some of you are thinking: “Whoa, man, there’s
another kind of Phish? And it’s spelled with an ‘f’?” Sorry, didn’t mean
to confuse you. Don’t worry, though, bro. No need to muddy up those
birks when Portland’s very own Phish tribute band is jamming on dry
land. The real thing is playing the Gorge Amphitheater in central
Washington in July, if your van is up for the four-hour drive.